


Pens and Reparations

by Sparkle_Free



Series: Victor Trevor [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: GLOR, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/pseuds/Sparkle_Free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Watson finds out about Victor Trevor, Holmes finds himself having to reconcile the past with the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pens and Reparations

It all started with a look.

It wasn't his fault, really. After years of careful avoidance, he'd let slip about his brother's existence, and Watson had latched onto it until he'd agreed to introduce them over dinner at the Diogenes Club. Mycroft was amicable to the idea, even agreeing to dine in the Stranger's Room for Watson's sake. The conversation was pleasant if a little boring, the food cooked to perfection, the atmosphere relaxed. Watson had ordered something Greek that was served smothered with a thick sauce. When a large drop landed on his finger, he darted his tongue out to run over the digit before blushing and wiping his hand on his napkin, murmuring an apology.

Holmes realized only a second too late that he was staring. His eyes snapped back to Mycroft. His brother smirked at him, and he narrowed his eyes in warning. Watson continued with his meal, oblivious.

"Really, Sherlock," Mycroft chided, swirling his wine gently in his glass, "I thought you swore off after Victor Trevor."

Watson looked curiously at his brother and Holmes leaned back in his seat, annoyed. "Swore off?" Watson asked. Panic flooded through Holmes. "Who's Victor Trevor?"

Mycroft smiled, "Sherlock's never mentioned him? I'm surprised. The two of them used to be quite... close."

Watson turned back to him, a vaguely hurt expression on his face. "Holmes?"

Holmes cleared his throat nervously and shot his brother a venomous glance. "Old friend from University. That's all," he said tightly.

"I didn't realize you had friends at University," Watson said absently. Immediately he flushed and stammered, "I - I mean, only that you never mentioned - that is - "

Mycroft chuckled. "No need to be embarrassed, doctor," he assured him. "You're quite right. Trevor was a singular occurrence in my brother's life. Until you, that is."

"Well, tell me about him," Watson asked eagerly. "What was he like?"

A hundred adjectives swirled through his head in that moment, each less appropriate than the last. "Polite," he said finally.

"Complimentary," Mycroft added with a smile.

"Reserved," Holmes said. He fidgeted with his silverware.

"- Discreet."

"Studious -"

"- Poetic."

"Congenial -"

"- _Affectionate._"

"_That's enough!_" Holmes slammed his hand down on the table. Watson jumped, and conversation at nearby tables faltered. Cheeks burning, Holmes cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. When he looked up again, Watson was looking warily between them and his brother was watching him with his usual cold, calculating look. "If we're quite done, I believe I've lost my appetite." He threw his napkin on the table and rose.

"Holmes..." Watson said hesitantly.

"I'll see you back at home, dear fellow," he murmured. "Brother," he nodded to Mycroft, then hurried out of the restaurant before either of them could reply.

\-----

When he first met Victor Trevor - really _met_ him, not just shook off his bull terrier and bled all over him on the way to the nurse - he'd been struck immediately by his pale eyes, striking features, broad shoulders. The proud set of his hips when he stood, his disarmingly sheepish smile as he persisted in coming by everyday to look after Holmes. Holmes, who had barked orders at him, sneered at the books he brought and tried desperately to ignore the throbbing between his legs when he was there and the ache in his chest when he wasn't. They'd become lovers within a week; then something Holmes was afraid to give a name to within a month.

"I wish for you to meet my brother," Holmes had said one morning as Victor was slipping into his clothes. Victor glanced over his shoulder as he buttoned his shirt, surprised. "He's been doing very well for himself as of late, and wishes to meet me to discuss my schooling. I do hope you'll come." He sat up, sheet pooling around his waist, leaning his elbows on his knees while he waited.

"Of course, but," Victor sat on the edge of the bed, "does he know about us?" He ran a finger down Holmes' arm, causing him to shiver.

"No, no; of course not," Holmes grabbed his hand and pulled him back onto the bed, laughing as Victor protested weakly. He settled against him, head pillowed on his shoulder as Holmes ran his fingers through his hair. "Even so, I like the idea of introducing you to my family," he murmured. Victor gripped him tightly, smiling as he rose up to peck him on the lips.

"Perhaps one day I'll bring you home to meet my father," he teased. Holmes laughed.

"I shall eagerly await the day."

They didn't speak of it again, until the day a telegram arrived informing Holmes that Mycroft had arrived and wished to meet him that evening. Victor had dressed in his best suit, nervously smoothing his fingers down the front repeatedly until Holmes caught his hands and gave him an exasperated little smile as they stepped from the cab. He released him quickly, and led the way into the restaurant.

"I'm pleased to see you, Mycroft," he greeted him. Mycroft gestured to the two free seats at his table.

"Sherlock. I must say I was surprised to hear you were bringing a guest tonight," Mycroft said as they sat. Victor smiled nervously, straightening his tie.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," Victor said.

"Indeed, the pleasure is mine. But tell me, Sherlock, what could you possibly have in common with a man who is majoring in Philosophy, is involved in rugby and has a _dog_ of all things." He turned to his brother, "You _hate_ dogs."

"Philosophy is a vast field of study, brother, rugby games can be an interesting distraction between classes, and I _love_ dogs." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Holmes sniffed. "When they're sedated."

Victor had been growing paler with every word, it seemed. He laughed nervously and shot Holmes a look. "You never mentioned how much you and your brother have in common," he said. He looked back at Mycroft. "May I ask how you...?"

"Your hands betray you as a Philosophy major," Holmes interrupted, "your general build and choice of footwear betray your love of the sport and," he leaned forward with a fond smile, "You have a hair, just here," he plucked the short brown hair from Victor's collar and held it up. He glanced at Mycroft and noted he was watching them with a peculiar expression. His heart raced as he dropped the hair and leaned back in his seat, focusing on the table.

"That's amazing," Victor said. "The two of you - Sherlock?" he touched the back of Holmes' hand briefly, and Holmes risked another look at his brother. Mycroft's gaze darted between them for a moment before he caught his brother's eye and smiled warmly. Holmes let out the breath he'd been holding and smiled back shakily.

"I'm fine," he told Victor. He reached for his menu, giving his brother one last grateful look.

\-----

When he first met John Watson, anyone could see he had his own demons to battle; and Holmes was so firmly engrossed in burying his own that they seemed a perfect match. A damaged pair, as it were. He happily agreed to share lodgings with a harmless, broken ex-soldier; but within months, he had a strong, determined doctor at his side, racing into danger at a moments notice. His leathery burn faded to a devastating tan; his weak grins evolved into bright smiles that were turned on him far more often than he deserved. Demons he thought dead and buried were roaring back to life inside of him, and all the while Watson - his sweet, oblivious Watson - continued to smile brightly and take his arm on walks and grip his hand in dangerous situations, never realizing the razor's edge his friend was teetering on.

That day, Watson arrived back at Baker Street shortly after Holmes. Holmes had been expecting him to apologize for the conversation having upset him; or perhaps retire to his room to give him time with his thoughts. What he _hadn't_ been expecting was Watson to seat himself at Holmes' feet in front of the fire, lips twisted in determination, and say, "Tell me about Victor Trevor."

"There's not much to tell," Holmes replied. Watson leaned forward and rested a hand on his knee.

"Isn't there anything you'd like to tell me at all?" he asked. He looked crestfallen. "The way you and Mycroft were talking about him at dinner..."

"What is bothering you, Watson?" Holmes asked, suddenly curious.

"Well," Watson glanced down. "For one thing, Mycroft described him as _poetic_. Was he a writer?"

"He wrote one or two small things, yes," Holmes admitted.

Watson looked up, hopeful and wary. "Do you still have them? Could you show me?"

"I don't think that's wise, Watson," Holmes said, as gently as he could.

Watson glowered immediately. "I take it _his_ writing was the sort of thing you approve of?" he asked bitterly.

"Yes," Holmes said softly, lost in his thoughts. "Yes, it was."

\-----

Holmes had curled up miserably under his blanket, nose running, his mood even bleaker now that Victor had gone. They had planned to spend the Christmas holidays at Victor's father's estate, but Holmes had rapidly fallen ill, and Victor, disappointed, had departed two days prior. He reached for the letter on his nightstand again; it had arrived the the morning prior, and Holmes had been amused to see it was postmarked shortly after he fell ill. In it Victor explained that if Holmes ended up too ill to travel, he wanted him to have something to remind him of Victor over the holidays. It gushed romanticism that made his cheeks burn even as his lips curved in a wide, silly smile every time he read it. He had just finished reading it again when a knock on his door drew his attention.

He dropped the letter on his desk as he crossed to the door, frowning. He opened it and looked out in disbelief for a moment.

"Mycroft? Mother?" His mother slipped past him and into the room; he had to step aside to let Mycroft in. "Why are you here?"

"I had Mycroft bring me, after you'd written you were canceling your holiday plans but were too ill to join us. Will you spend the afternoon with us, Sherlock? Only I can't imagine that you'd have anything better to do."

He glanced at the letter. "No, of course I don't," he said finally. "I'll be pleased to have the company. Although I hope you don't mind if I spend it lying down."

"Not at all," his mother ushered him back to his bed, smoothing his hair back and making him grimace as Mycroft chuckled. She brought him tea with ginger, and they crowded around his bed, his mother fussing over him until Mycroft gently eased her back slightly with a smile. Several hours later, Holmes began to drift off. A voice jerked him back to wakefulness.

"'Euphoria,' what an interesting choice of words." Holmes' eyes flew open to see his brother standing at his desk holding a letter. _The_ letter. He flushed a deep red and looked around the room nervously, but their mother was nowhere to be seen.

"She went to find us something to eat," Mycroft explained. He brandished the letter. "This could land you both in Gaol," he said sternly. "I can accept that he was foolish enough to write it, but I would expect better of you than to keep it. _Especially_ where it is so easily found."

Holmes looked down, ashamed. "It arrived only yesterday," he muttered.

"And yet," Mycroft examined the paper, "the creases are worn as though it's been opened and closed several times, and the edges are smudged slightly here and here," he pinched the edges in an exact imitation of his brother. He looked up again, a tender expression on his face, and sighed, shaking his head. He pulled open the middle drawer of the desk and situated it carefully under a stack of papers. "There. You can burn it once he returns."

\-----

But he _hadn't_ burned the letter. It was here, a faded reminder that he had been human, once. Watson was still gazing at him, obviously hurting. As much as it pained him, he knew no matter what his decision now their friendship would be marred. He rose and crossed to his bedroom, wavering in front of the bookshelf. Finally, he gently tugged the letter from it's hiding place among the row of Strand magazines lining the shelf; he walked back to the sitting room where Watson still sat in front of the fire, waiting.

He took a deep breath. "You are forcing us down a path we cannot turn back from, old friend," he whispered. Watson stood then, and crossed to stand in front of him.

"Let me see it," Watson said gently. Holmes handed over the letter and crossed to his chair. Watson sat across from him and carefully unfolded the old paper and began to read.

After the first line, his eyebrows shot up and his cheeks colored deeply. He cleared his throat awkwardly, but continued to read. As he neared the end, his eyebrows fell, then creased, his lips pressed in annoyance. Finally he folded it once more and sat back in his chair, tapping the letter on the arm and watching the movement, lips still pursed.

Holmes watched, heart in his throat, until he could stand it no longer. "Well?" he asked finally. Watson's eyes darted up a moment, then fell back to the letter.

"Poetic," he said shortly.

"That's not what I'm asking about and you know it," Holmes snapped. He immediately passed a hand over his eyes. "My apologies." He drew a deep breath. "If you wish me to leave, you need only to request it, dear fellow. But please, say _something_."

Watson sighed and ran a hand over his face. "The things he wrote... he really loved you, didn't he?"

Even after all these years, having another human being acknowledge that Victor Trevor had _loved_ him moved him beyond words for a moment. Finally, he spoke past the lump in his throat, "Yes. He did." His voice was gravelly.

"And you loved him?"

"Yes," Holmes whispered. Watson stood and crossed to stand in front of him, holding out the letter. Holmes took it, unable to look at Watson's face, afraid of what he might see there.

Watson watched him from his chair for the rest of the day as Holmes moved around the sitting room, pacing, smoking, trying to calm his shattered nerves without resorting to the needle. They didn't speak; an unnatural silence fell over the room and Holmes felt as though a rift was rapidly growing between them. He found he had no words to slow the divide, so he simply stayed in the room, unwilling to let a second of the beginning of the end pass him by.

"Holmes," Watson finally said that evening. Holmes started where he had been standing, staring into the fire.

"Yes?" he said warily, wondering if this was it.

"Do you care for me?"

It felt as though the world had dropped out from beneath him. He stood for several seconds simply staring at Watson, who was leveling him with an appraising stare. There was a nervousness underneath it, though, and with a jolt Holmes realized what he was really thinking.

"It bothers you that I was close to someone, before you," Holmes said slowly. Watson flushed.

"I don't know why it bothers me so," Watson admitted with a sad smile. "It's just that - for some reason, I thought that I was - " he shook his head in frustration. "I don't know. Please, forget I said anything," he said miserably. He rose to leave.

Suddenly, Holmes thought that perhaps Mycroft had a reason for doing this to him. That his brother, with his superior insight, had recognized something in his friend that he hadn't. The thought chilled him to the bone. He should tell Watson to leave; he should pack his own bags that very evening. He opened his mouth to say as much.

What came out instead was, "Are you sure you don't know?"

\-----

Victor pushed at him playfully, but Holmes wrapped his arms firmly around his waist, sheets tangled around their naked bodies as Holmes pinned him to the bed. Victor laughed softly and struggled weakly.

"My father will be awake soon, and if we're not downstairs, he'll be up here looking for us," Victor said. Holmes leaned forward and kissed him soundly.

"Relax," he whispered against his lips. Victor sighed and leaned into the kiss as Holmes ground against him slowly.

Ten minutes later, the door swung open. An hour later, Holmes boarded a train home.

His mother met him at the door, telegram in hand. His head snapped to the side with the force of her blow. His cheek stung; he blinked his eyes rapidly for a moment, but didn't turn back.

"Get out," she choked. "Never set foot in this house again." He nodded once, and left.

Mycroft offered him use of his spare room for the remainder of the holiday, which he gratefully accepted. Victor's telegram arrived two months later, begging for his help, and he was on the train once more before nightfall. Victor met him at the station, pale and tearful but painfully cordial. They hurried to the estate at once and Holmes began his investigation, listening to Victor's pained story.

He folded the coded message and cleared his throat when Victor had finished speaking. "It must have been the shock of it all that killed him," he said softly. Victor nodded, a far off look in his eye.

Wondering.

A week later, Holmes reclined on his brother's couch, re-reading the short letter that had arrived that morning.

_My Dearest Sherlock,_

Please believe me when I write that I never meant to hurt you so. However, after the loss of my father and other recent events, I find that England holds no promise for me. I must depart. I will be on a boat bound for the continent tomorrow evening. I am sorry. Please believe me to always be,

Faithfully Yours,

Victor Trevor

He ran his fingers gently over small dips in the paper; ink blotches where Victor had obviously hesitated - over the words _events_, _promise_ and the final _please_ \- wondering idly why Victor was writing with a broken pen.

He'd never know. He'd never know anything new about his lover again. He pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the fire, tossing the letter in and settling back on his heels to watch it burn.

"Perhaps," Mycroft murmured behind him, "Once you begin work in London -"

"No," he interrupted. "Never again," he said softly.

\-----

Never again. And yet, here he was, John Watson standing in front of him, eyes dark and curious, considering.

"I don't want anyone else knowing you in ways that I don't," he said.

"You may know me in any way you wish, my friend," Holmes said softly. Fear thrilled through his veins; fear that Watson would leave, fear that he would stay. Finally, Watson stepped forward and rested a hand on his chest. His hands were shaking, but when he rose up he pressed their lips together firmly, without hesitation. Holmes slid his arms around his waist without thinking, melting into the kiss, fear rapidly fading in the face of the sheer heat of his friend's body. He'd forgotten what it felt like to have lips on his, skin sliding against skin, hands buried in his hair.

Watson pulled back slightly. "Will it be worth it?" Holmes asked him. Watson smiled and took his hand.

"Let's find out together."

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel is here: [Ghosts and Absolutions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/108692)


End file.
